Sinful Rewards 3

by Cynthia Sax

  Dedication

  To my dear, wonderful hubby for adding love and laughter to every day, to Laurie Cooper at Pub-Craft for her marketing guidance, and to ELF for ensuring Bee’s love of raspberries remained constant throughout all twelve novellas.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  Also by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from The Cowboy and the Angel by T. J. Kline

  An Excerpt from Finding Miss McFarland by Vivienne Lorret

  An Excerpt from Take the Key and Lock Her Up by Lena Diaz

  An Excerpt from Dylan’s Redemption by Jennifer Ryan

  An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Whatever It Takes by Dixie Lee Brown

  An Excerpt from Hard to Hold On To by Laura Kaye

  An Excerpt from Kiss Me, Captain by Gwen Jones

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  “THE TANTRA TWINS took turns kissing me.” Cyndi wiggles on the bar stool as she relates every minute detail of last night’s sexcapades. “You’d think they’d kiss the same way, being twins and everything, but nope, it was like kissing two totally different men.”

  While she chatters about the experience, going into graphic detail about sizes of tongues and their lip-locking techniques, my thoughts drift to my two totally different men.

  Hawke, my tattooed biker, had embraced me tenderly, reverently, handling me as though I was a fragile piece of lace. His unexpected touch had melted any resistance I might have felt, lowered my defenses.

  Then passion had decimated his restraint and he’d surged forward, driving my head back, dominating me, imprinting his soul on mine. I touch my lips with trembling fingertips, remembering the press of his flesh against mine, the taste of his mouth, his unique scent surrounding me.

  Would Nicolas, my sophisticated billionaire, kiss as savagely? I can’t envision him losing control, growling with desire, clutching me to his hard form, his lust burning hot and bright all around me, a wildfire blazing out of control. No, Nicolas’s passion would be steady, safe, lasting, a slow, gentle kiss any sane woman would prefer.

  Cyndi pauses, gazing at me expectantly.

  I search my brain for something intelligent to say, having lost track of the conversation. “I can’t imagine men taking turns.” Both Hawke and Nicolas are too possessive to share. . .which suits me just fine. I want a man I can give my entire heart and all of my loyalty to.

  That man is Nicolas. I press my lips together. I don’t know why I’m thinking of Hawke at all. He’s a one-night-stand type of man and, judging by his darkened condo, he has already left Chicago.

  Because that’s what his kind do—they leave.

  “The Tantra twins only took turns with kissing.” Cyndi grins, unaware of my inner turmoil. “The eldest is an ass man. He claimed that hole immediately.” My best friend squirms. “Luckily, he wasn’t as big as I thought he’d be or I wouldn’t be able to walk today. Still, it was messy and—”

  I hold up my hands, stopping her sure-to-be disgusting description of anal sex, an act I will never ever engage in. “I don’t want to hear about it. It isn’t hygienic.”

  “It certainly wasn’t last night.” Cyndi’s green eyes glitter. “Isn’t it time for you to leave?” she asks for the fourth time this morning, my roommate uncharacteristically concerned with my schedule today. “You don’t want to be late for your own announcement.”

  Cyndi doesn’t care if I’m late for the announcement. She never arrives to work on time, being the heir to the candy company employing her.

  I narrow my eyes, wondering what my hyperactive friend is scheming to do in my absence. “Mr. Peterson is revealing the identity of the new full-time employee at two o’clock. I could walk to work and reach there in time.”

  Not that I’d do that. The plan had been to wake up early and impress my boss by arriving at the office before he did. Then my reward was delivered and Cyndi, my culinary-impaired friend, attempted to cook eggs. We started talking, the extra hour slipped away, and I’m now leaving at my regular time.

  “Good.” Cyndi feigns relief as she taps her toes on the hardwood floor, her expression anxious. She wants me out of the condo for some unknown reason. “Then I can tell you about last night’s mess. Thankfully, the twins rented a hotel room because after we’d eaten that big dinner, my ass—”

  “Don’t tell me.” I slap my palms over my ears, conceding defeat, not wanting to know about her ass, the state of their hotel room or the poor maid who would have to clean it. “You win. I’m going to work.”

  “If you insist.” Cyndi smirks. She knows how to drive me out of the condo.

  “I’ll find out what you’re planning eventually,” I warn. As I walk toward the door, I place my weight solely on my heels. This minimizes my shoes’ creaking, the imitation Louboutins one or two wears away from being pitched in the trash.

  “I’m so scared.” My best friend feigns a shudder.

  “You’re an idiot.” I laugh. “I should be home at the regular time.” I grab my gorgeous Salvatore Ferragamo purse, the limo chits tucked into its side pocket. “Only the unsuccessful temp gets a half day.”

  “That unsuccessful temp won’t be you.” Cyndi grins.

  “It won’t be me.” I grin back at her, my excitement bubbling over. “See you later.” I open the door and stride down the hallway, my heart light, my heels sinking in the thick red carpet. Finally, I’ll have a full-time job, a place where I permanently belong.

  I press the button for the elevator three times, unable to contain my happiness. My smiling face reflects in the metallic doors, my joy escalated by the designer purse on my arm.

  Nicolas Rainer, my sexy billionaire, must be my mysterious texter, the source of the luxurious rewards. He tests all of the people he associates with and his daily erotic challenges are exactly that—a test. He also prefers to take a limousine everywhere. He’d want that same convenience for any woman he cares for.

  He cares for me. I stroke my hand over the red leather purse. Nicolas wouldn’t give me such an expensive piece of functional art if he didn’t have feelings for me. I have feelings for him, not wild, crazy, passionate feelings as I have for Hawke, but a more manageable, sane, lasting type of affection, of caring.

  Because Nicolas isn’t going anywhere, unlike a certain former marine. Hawke could be repairing his pretty bike or having breakfast in a downtown diner or taking an early shift at wherever he works, but I know in my heart he’s gone, riding out of the city without a backward glance, leaving me as my dad left my mom. I expected Hawke to leave. His departure shouldn’t hurt me. Not this much.

  The doors open, revealing Lona LaMarre, the high-class escort living in five oh one south, the woman who claims I’m a younger version of herself. She’s dressed impeccably, as usual, in a fabulous burgundy Chanel skirt suit. The silver necklace softening her deep-V neckline matches the silver interlocking C buttons on the jacket. A clutch purse and strappy sandals complete her stylish ensemble. Her dark hair is swept upward, and her makeup is flawless, her skin glowing under the lights.

  Cyndi, my roommate, says the escort is searching for a protégée, someone to take over her lucrative client list. This someone will be challenging to find. Lona is one of the most sophisticated women I know.

  “Good morning.” I step into the elevator car. My weight shifts and my shoes creak. Shit. That’s embarrassing. My face heats.

  “Good morning, Be
linda.” The escort’s lips twitch. She heard the awful sound yet doesn’t say anything.

  I turn and face the closing doors, wanting to sink into the marble tile floor, to disappear. The button for the lobby has already been pushed, Lona anticipating my arrival. We’re both creatures of habit, finding comfort in routines.

  “You should consider wearing your hair down,” she observes, her husky voice hinting of smoky clubs and steamy sex. “Rugged men such as your Hawke often have a weakness for long hair. They find the softness irresistible.”

  She should know what men find irresistible. That’s her business. My lips flatten. “He’s not my Hawke.” He left me, as I knew he would, taking a little piece of my heart with him.

  Lona laughs. “Oh, hon, I know he’s yours. I saw the two of you yesterday, embracing in front of the building.”

  My chin jerks upward and I meet her gaze. “I didn’t see you.”

  Her smile widens. “That’s not surprising. You were wrapped up in each other, lost to the world around you, and with your purse set on the sidewalk too.” She clucks her tongue. “Anyone could have taken it.”

  “Anyone didn’t.” Why do I interest her? I study our reflections. Lona can’t be considering me for the role of protégée. She’s beautiful, poised, perfectly put together. I’m a creaky, designer-knockoff-wearing wannabe.

  “I’m being promoted to full time today.” I also want a forever commitment, not a string of meaningless encounters.

  My gaze lowers to Lona’s designer purse. Even if they’re very lucrative meaningless encounters.

  “Congratulations.” The older woman sounds sincere. “You must be good at pleasing people. Your Hawke appeared quite pleased.”

  “He’s not my Hawke.” I straighten, irked that she knows his name. If he hadn’t left me, I’d ask what their connection was, but that’s pointless now. Nicolas is the man I should be focusing on. He’s the man I can depend on.

  “He’s yours.” Lona tilts her well-coiffed head, her lips pursed in thought. “But I suspect you’re not quite his. That’s interesting.”

  That isn’t interesting. At all. The doors open and I stride out of the elevator car, not looking back and not heeding how I step. My shoes creak loudly. I grit my teeth and adjust my walk to minimize the noise.

  Jacob, the security guard positioned at the front door, looks up as I approach. “Good morning, Miss Bee.” The older man smiles. “Did Miss Cyndi give you your package?”

  “She certainly did.” I slow my steps. “Did you find out who my secret admirer is?”

  “I didn’t.” Jacob stands, his uniform pulling tight over his stomach. “I was looking out for him this time and saw nothing. He’s a clever chap, knows our routines and systems.”

  Because he approved the routines and systems. “He sounds clever.” I smile, almost certain that Friendly, my mysterious texter, is Nicolas. “I’m sure I’ll find out who he is eventually.” I push against the front door.

  “I’m sure you will.” Jacob chuckles.

  I step into the sun and raise my face to the sky. Not one cloud mars the blue, which is a shade more vibrant than a certain tattooed biker’s eyes. Hawke’s not waiting for me in front of the building, isn’t straddling his bike, asking me if I want a ride. He promised to make me more offers but that, like his kisses, had been a lie.

  I was an idiot to believe him. He’s a drifter as my dad was. As I barrel along the sidewalk, I drill my heels into the concrete. Hawke’s not interested in forever.

  A long black limousine rolls by me, slows, and then stops. I recognize the license plate and my heart leaps. Nicolas is interested in commitment.

  The door opens. A suit-clad arm extends, the tanned hand reaching for me. “Get in,” my billionaire demands, his curt voice allowing no refusal.

  I clasp his immaculately manicured fingers and allow him to draw me into the vehicle. My shoes creak and my fabric-covered ass slaps against leather. I set my purse on my lap. Nicolas hooks his arm around me and pulls me snugly against his body, his hold on me reassuringly tight, soothingly secure. He’s here, his grip tells me. He’s not going anywhere.

  “Why are you walking to the bus stop?” Nicolas grumbles, his voice low and deep. He smells of expensive cologne and dominant man, the combination exciting me. “Don’t you have another way to get to work?”

  “I do. I suspect I’ll be taking a limo from now on.” If he’s Friendly, he’ll know about the limo chits in my purse. I turn my head, gaze at Nicolas, and my heart does a funny little flip. He’s so damn handsome, his black hair accentuating his golden skin and dark eyes.

  “I’m an asshole.” Nicolas’s lips quirk upward, his amusement intensifying his already stunning looks. “You can’t count on getting a ride to work with me every day.” His fingers splay possessively over my hip, and my body hums with happiness, relishing the connection.

  When Nicolas holds me, I feel safe, cherished, protected. I relax, resting my head in the hollow of his shoulder. I haven’t felt safe in a long, long time.

  “Friends don’t let friends take the bus,” I quip. Does my enigmatic billionaire still view me as a friend?

  “Your friend Cyndi Wynters allows you to take the bus.” Nicolas doesn’t mention the limo chits.

  If he’s determined to play this game, I’ll match him move for move, making the rules up as I go along. “Cyndi has offered to give me rides. She tries to pay for new purses and shoes and cover my part of restaurant bills.” I lift my chin. “But I have my pride.”

  “That’s what he told me.” Nicolas rubs his fingertips into my body, the friction warming my skin. I’m hungry for touch, desperate for it, and I respond, the humming becoming a pulsing need.

  “Your investigator told you I had pride?” I ask.

  Nicolas nods, his gaze fixed on my face as though I’m the most interesting, enthralling creature he’s ever seen. His attention eases the sting of Hawke’s abandonment.

  Nicolas wants to make me happy. He knows I’m a proud woman, and he also knows how poor I am. Are the secretive text messages a means for him to give me things without damaging my dignity?

  This is unexpectedly sweet of my brusque billionaire. The heat from my hip spreads upward, blossoming across my chest. “Your investigator gave you a very detailed report,” I murmur.

  “Yes.” Nicolas’s dry tone contrasts vividly with his gentle touch. “He shared much more information than was warranted.”

  “He shared?” I tilt my head. “You didn’t ask him for that much information?” Why would an investigator voluntarily gather information about me?

  Nicolas says nothing.

  I wiggle with excitement. My cautious billionaire trusts his investigator, values his opinion, and the thought of this stranger compiling my personal information thrills me. Did he see my sexy strip show last night? Did I make him hard?

  Did I make Hawke hard? No. I shake my head. I won’t think about the tattooed biker. He’s long gone, part of my past now. I touch my lips, remembering his feel, his taste.

  “Move your big bag, Bee.” Nicolas shifts beside me, bumping his hip against mine and pressing his pants-covered thigh against my bare leg, as though he wishes to claim the entire length of my body. Part of me resists this encroachment on my personal space, the silly part loyal to a man who deserted me. “I want to look at you.”

  I want to be looked at. Does Nicolas know this about me? I move my gorgeous purse to the seat beside me and search my brain for something to say, to take my mind off his wandering hands, off the flickering embers of desire slowly building inside me. “I guess you’re wondering why I accepted a ride from you when I wouldn’t accept one from Cyndi.”

  “Do you know why?” Nicolas strokes higher, grazing his fingertips over the waistband of my skirt. His progress is slow and patient, the billionaire earning my trust one inch at a time.

  Do I know why I accepted a ride from Nicolas? I frown. “No, not really.” I laugh and he smiles, the skin around his brow
n eyes crinkling. “You never gave me a choice, telling me to get in.” I imitate his curt voice.

  Nicolas’s smile spreads to his eyes, gold sparks igniting in the dark. “Giving someone a choice is risky. If you truly want something, it’s best to take the decision out of the person’s hands.” He slides his fingers under my blazer, skin skims skin, and I stiffen, shock and guilt and awareness swirling together, a potent emotional mix.

  “Easy,” Nicolas murmurs as he drags his knuckles up and down, up and down, caressing my side. My nipples tighten, my body responding to his knowing touch. I’ve never been handled this carefully, this expertly. His contact is hypnotic, drawing me under, smothering my silent protests of too much, too soon.

  I lean against my billionaire. He’s appealingly warm, his form lithe yet solid. The limousine is dimly lit and the seat vibrates under my ass, the motion making me drowsy. I allow Nicolas to hold me, to explore my side, the sense of disloyalty, of betrayal fading under his persistent assault.

  He nuzzles the top of my head with his chin and I look upward. Our gazes meet and hold. He’s so handsome, so focused on me, open need reflecting on his perfect face. His lips lower. His breath wafts on my cheeks and I become still, waiting for his touch, anticipating his kiss.

  A hum breaks the companionable silence. My billionaire’s lips flatten and he pulls away from me. “I have to get this. It’s important.”

  And I’m not important? My shoulders slump.

  He reaches inside his jacket coat, removes his phone, answers. “Nicolas Rainer.” Humor sparks in his eyes, and some of my confidence returns. He answers his phone this way because of me, because I told him to tell people his name. I matter to him. I must.

  He should matter to me. I place my hand on Nicolas’s thigh, and his muscles flex under my fingertips, his reaction gratifyingly instant. Hawke might not have wanted me, not enough to stay, but this wealthy, brilliant man does.

  Nicolas listens to the caller, asking more questions than he answers, the communication blunt, to the point, wasting no time. As he talks about financing and interest rates, citing figures in the millions, he strokes my side, not venturing any higher or any lower, seeming content with this innocent touching.